Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05]

by Deadly Caress

  “That is fine with me. As I have no intention of ever being a puppet on your strings,” Bragg said calmly.

  Hart was furious with himself now. And he felt like a small boy who had offered a cookie to his dog, only to have his hand bitten. “How melodramatic. Here’s a thought—by refusing my offer you will become reconciled with Leigh Anne and led around by your nose hairs for the rest of your life. You shall be a puppet on her strings!”

  “Funny how you did not deny your intent to seduce Francesca,” Bragg returned coldly.

  “If I denied it, would you believe me?” He decided he had had enough. Besides, he wasn’t hungry, anyway.

  “No.”

  They stared at each other. “I will kill you if you hurt her,” Bragg said. “She is not for you. Stick to Daisy and the likes of her, Hart,” he warned.

  Hart grinned. “I was thinking the same thing. I will kill you if you hurt her. Oh, wait! It’s too late. You have already hurt her, haven’t you?”

  Bragg started. “This simply amazes me, that you think you could ever be her hero!” Bragg leaned forward, lowering his voice. “It is me whom she loves. Not you. She could never love a blackguard. You may wish to protect her from me, but she needs protecting from you. I am getting a divorce, Hart. And while I would never ask Francesca to wait for me, if she is free when I become free, I am marrying her,” he said flatly.

  Hart stared. The room had become still and silent around him. His heart felt as if it had stopped. And was that icy fear he had just felt coiling around his guts? “No,” he said slowly, harshly. “You are not.”

  “I doubt you can predict the future, or have you become psychic?” Bragg mocked.

  “But I can predict the future,” Hart said, standing and tossing his linen napkin down. “You see, by the time you obtain your divorce, Francesca will no longer be free.”

  Bragg also stood. “What does that mean?”

  “It means she will be married to me,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 1902—3:00 P.M.

  FRANCESCA AND JOEL SMILED at the officer standing outside Melinda Neville’s apartment. He instantly moved to bar their way. “Miss Neville?” he asked quickly.

  Francesca continued to smile at him, handing him her calling card. “No, I am afraid I am not Miss Neville,” she said with false cheer. She felt terrible for Bertrand Hoeltz, who had not seen Melinda since Monday morning when they had taken a petit déjeuner together. Apparently Melinda had met Hoeltz in Paris, about a year ago, where their affair had begun. He was a frequent traveler to Europe, as it turned out. He had begged her to return to New York, and eventually, the long-distance nature of their affair too taxing, she had agreed.

  Melinda Neville kept her own flat at Number 202 10th Street but spent a good deal of her time with Hoeltz, who had his own apartment behind the art gallery he owned. They had spent Sunday evening together, dined lightly the following morning, with Melinda departing to go to her studio and work. He had not seen her since. He was frantic.

  The roses that had been lying upon the floor not far from Miss Conway’s body had been haunting Francesca since she had first seen the murder victim Tuesday. They had not been given to Melinda Neville by her lover. “I feel certain they were a gift meant for Miss Conway,” he had said tearfully. “This is not like Melinda. She would never disappear for three days without telling me where she was going and why. I fear something terrible has happened to her,” he said, trembling.

  Francesca had laid a comforting hand upon his shoulder. “Do you know another artist, Sarah Channing?” she had asked.

  He had shaken his head no.

  Now Francesca faced the young policeman guarding the door to Flat Number Seven. “Miss Cahill,” the wardsman said, his eyes now as round as his blushing face. “You may go in, ma’am.”

  Francesca thanked him, allowed him to open the door for her, and preceded Joel inside. As she turned on a lamp, Joel said, “You think Hoeltz went and stiffed her?”

  Francesca looked at him fondly. “We have simply no reason to believe such a thing, Joel.” Of course, she had had to wonder the very same thing. But that was the problem of having a list of credible suspects that consisted of one—Andrew LeFarge.

  “Maybe someone else gave her them roses. Maybe he was jealous and he seen red. Ye know, like in the theater.”

  She blinked at him with respect. “That is an admirable theory. We shall get to the bottom of this, Joel. Let us continue to hope that Miss Neville is unharmed.” But Francesca did not believe it. She had a terrible feeling that the missing woman was dead.

  Francesca now studied the all too familiar and gruesome room. A depiction of Miss Conway’s body as she had been found was outlined in chalk upon the floor. The roses that had been scattered there were gone, gathered up, Francesca thought, as evidence. Francesca turned and gazed at the black letter B painted on the vandalized wall. Did B stand for Bragg? Did it stand for Bartolla Benevente, whose portrait had been mutilated by the vandal at Sarah Channing’s studio? Or perhaps it stood for something or someone with which or whom she was not familiar yet.

  “Nuthin’ new here,” Joel announced. “Don’t know what you expected to find.” He shifted impatiently from foot to foot, shivering.

  “Probably nothing,” Francesca said distractedly. She went over to the chalk outline of Miss Conway’s body and paused. Had she already found a new admirer? It seemed likely, given her popularity. Was one of her ardent admirers a murderous madman?

  Or had her murder been accidental?

  They so needed a solid clue. Francesca thought about the connection between Melinda Neville and Sarah Channing—art. It wasn’t even Bertrand Hoeltz. She thought about the connection between Grace Conway and Melinda Neville—it had been this building. The connection between Grace and Sarah had been her brother. She was at a loss.

  And Sarah was alive. Grace Conway was not, and in all likelihood, neither was Melinda Neville.

  Francesca paced the room, certain she was missing something and unable to determine what that something was. Finally she sat down on the sofa, having given up. There was something that she had seen or something that her mind wanted to tell her, but it simply wasn’t coming to her now.

  “Mebbe I had better git home an’ see if my mom needs something?” Joel asked.

  Francesca realized that it was getting late. She hurried to him. “I think you should go home,” she said, patting his back. “I think we have done enough sleuthing for today. I have an errand to perform soon, anyway.” And as she spoke, her heart lurched unpleasantly. She had delayed and procrastinated until there was simply not another excuse she could make. Evan was improving daily, and soon he would be up and about. She had to ask Hart for that loan so that Evan could pay back some of his debts.

  “You sure it’s OK?” Joel asked with open worry.

  “I’m sure.” Francesca smiled at him.

  They left the apartment, pausing to thank the young officer for letting them in. Outside, Francesca halted on the sidewalk in front of the building, more disturbed than ever. She was missing something.

  And it was right there, in front of her face; she felt certain of it.

  She recalled the scene on the street two days ago when she and Joel had first arrived there. The policemen in their uniforms, the empty police wagon, the Daimler, the Mug-heads. And then her gaze flew back to a stoop not far from the one she and Joel had just left.

  There had been a gray-haired woman sitting there in rags, swilling her beer from a bucket. Talking madly to herself and jeering at everyone. A madwoman, a vagrant, a drunk. Just how long had she been sitting there?

  Her excitement rising, Francesca reminded herself that Grace Conway had been murdered sometime on Monday, not on Tuesday night. But she could not tamp down her enthusiasm now.

  She had helped feed the homeless and the poor too many Sundays to count. And the one thing she knew from her active social duties was that va
grants frequented the same locations, time and again. A city corner might be considered to be home to one, a building’s stoop home to another.

  “Joel, we must find that vagrant woman—the one who was loitering on the adjacent stoop on Tuesday night.” She was breathless now. It was a long shot—or was it? “I am returning here after dark,” she said.

  And he looked at her as if she were the crazy one.

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 1902—5:00 P.M.

  Calder Hart’s offices were in a fine brick building on Front Street, with views of the wharves and the ships there, the bay, and the Statue of Liberty. Francesca could not appreciate his location now. She had been putting off her visit to Calder Hart long enough. She dreaded facing him after their last encounter, and even more, she dreaded begging him for a loan.

  In fact, there was more than dread in her heart; there was fear. She kept telling herself that there was simply no reason for her to be afraid of a man who was such a good friend. She simply had to get that loan for Evan’s sake, even if it meant spending the rest of her life paying Hart back, penny by copper penny.

  Joel now gazed up at the brick building with wide eyes as several drays drawn by draft horses went by. A huge sign was hanging just below the temple pediment of its roof, and it read quite simply: HART INDUSTRIES. When Joel had learned that she was calling upon Hart, he had told her he would accompany her, as the wharf was simply too rough a place for a fine lady like herself. “How rich do you think he really is?” Joel asked breathlessly.

  “I have no idea,” Francesca said tersely. She reminded herself to remain calm and composed. It did not help. And looking at Joel, she wondered if the real reason he had accompanied her downtown was the ruffians lingering about the wharf or a fascination of his own for Calder Hart.

  “How’d a man who was a boy like me get so rich?” Joel asked as they entered the building—and that quite answered her question.

  “You might wish to ask him that, sometime.”

  “He’d never tell me,” Joel muttered, his cheeks turning red.

  “Calder is actually a kind man,” Francesca whispered nervously as they passed through the lobby. It was wood-paneled, with gleaming wood floors. She knew the building was a recently constructed one, but it looked as if it had been around for decades. Several multicolored, mostly red Persian rugs covered the floors. Works of art hung on the walls. There was a pleasant sitting area. A larger than life-size sculpture of a Roman soldier on a brawny horse dominated the room.

  “He’s a blackguard. I heard it said. He ain’t kind, Miz Cahill.”

  Francesca paused. “He has been kind to us,” she remonstrated.

  Joel looked her in the eye. “Only because you’re a real pretty lady.”

  She decided not to argue the point. She had been to Calder’s office one time before, and she and Joel set up the stairs. They were both breathless by the time they reached the fifth floor.

  They entered a grand salon, where a crystal chandelier the size of a small buggy hung from the high ceiling, which was grandly embossed in gold. A large rug in shades of beige, green, and coral covered the floor; the walls were moss green, the furniture elegant and grand. The room could easily host a small ball. A Chippendale desk was at the room’s far end. A young clerk stood and approached them.

  Francesca gripped her reticule very tightly. It was too late to back out now—or was it? “Is Mr. Hart in?”

  The clerk was disapproving. “Yes. I am afraid I do not have you scheduled to meet with him, Miss, er . . . Miss . . . ?”

  “I am a personal friend,” Francesca said, and the moment the words were out, she felt her cheeks heat. She knew what the young clerk assumed. He thought she was a marriage-mad young debutante hoping to ensnare Calder or, worse, a lovesick one. “Please do ask him if he has a moment to see me. Francesca Cahill,” she added nervously.

  The man intended to smile and grimaced instead. “He is in a very important meeting,” he warned. “Please, do take a seat.”

  Francesca tried to do so but found it impossible to sit, and she jumped to her feet, instead removing her gloves and hanging her coat on a coatrack. Joel lounged on a settee with gilded hooves for feet, draping his wool jacket carelessly on one arm there. “Joel? After you say hello to Calder, do you mind if I have a private word with him?”

  Joel blinked. “Do I mind?” He blinked at her in confusion. “Oh! That’s a lady’s way of saying I should sit out here! I’ll stay here, Miz Cahill,” he said, chuckling. “I don’t mind.”

  She patted his head absently.

  “Miss Cahill?” The clerk came running forward, looking stricken, as if he had just done something criminal and had been found out. “Mr. Hart will see you immediately. I am sorry I made you wait,” he added quickly.

  “Thank you.” Francesca followed the clerk from the salon and down a short hall. She passed an open doorway and saw a huge conference table with perhaps two dozen chairs, the wood dark cherry, the chairs black leather, all of it bringing to mind the sound of muted whispers and the scent of Cuban cigars. Two cherrywood doors were open at the end of the corridor. A huge office faced Francesca, at its farthest end Hart’s large leather-inlaid desk. He wasn’t seated behind it—he was standing in the center of the room, clearly waiting for her, as always, clad in black trousers that belonged to a black suit. But he was in his white shirt and silver vest. When he saw her, he smiled.

  Warmth blazed its way through her, from her head to her toes.

  Today he looked like a dangerously handsome gambler, a professional one.

  But perhaps that was what he really was.

  “You have made my day, Francesca,” he murmured, the smile in his nearly black eyes now.

  “I do hope you have had a better day than that,” she said tartly. It was hot in his office, but the fire in the hearth beneath the marble mantel was quite tame.

  He took both of her hands in his. “It has been rather boring and quite fair,” he said. He dimpled, lifted one hand, and kissed it.

  Francesca inhaled and drew her hand away, acutely aware of his lips having brushed her skin. How would he react when she asked him for a loan? She would never, ever use the fact that he wished to marry her as a trump card, but she felt shameless, because it was a trump card whether she played it or not. If only their friendship hadn’t changed!

  Hart grinned at Joel. “Hey there, Kennedy. Are you taking good care of Miss Cahill?”

  Joel nodded very seriously. “I do my best, Mr. Hart.”

  “Good. The way I see it, you are her bodyguard now, Kennedy. It is your duty to keep her safe and sound. And you have done quite a good job, I think, up to now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Joel said, flushing with pleasure.

  “I am present, you know,” Francesca said, remaining as tense as ever. “I am an intelligent grown woman who has solved four rather difficult and dangerous cases.”

  “Do not pat yourself too hard on the back, as everyone in this room knows the danger you have been in. Oh—except for Mr. Edwards. Mike, Miss Cahill is never to be kept waiting. I will see her anytime that she calls.”

  Francesca had realized that the clerk remained in the doorway. She turned and saw him nod deferentially, his cheeks red. “Yes, sir.”

  “That is all. Why don’t you take young Kennedy here and give him a tour of the premises?” Hart asked. “A U.S. warship has recently berthed in the harbor. Point her out to him.”

  “Certainly, sir. Would you and Miss Cahill like any refreshments?” Edwards asked.

  Hart turned his warm gaze upon Francesca. She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  “That will be all,” Hart said.

  Edwards backed out after Joel and closed both doors behind him.

  “Alone at last,” Hart said, his tone teasing.

  But he had stepped closer to her, and from her perspective, he was always a tower of male strength and virility, and she jumped away, gripping her reticule so tightly that her fingers ached.

/>   His eyes widened. “My dear, you are as nervous as a doe about to be gunned down. I am hardly a hunter with you in my sights. And you did call on me,” he added, amused.

  “But you are a hunter, even where I am concerned,” she said tersely.

  His smile faded. “Francesca, if I were preying upon you as I have other women, you’d be on that sofa right now.”

  She blinked, her gaze flying to the sofa against the wall—a thick plush leather couch large enough for a man and woman to make love upon. For one moment she stared, fascinated and wondering if he had made love to a woman there. But of course he had. He was, after all, the city’s most notorious womanizer.

  But who had been the love interest?

  “Francesca?”

  She looked at him. It wasn’t her business. It would never be her business. “Who was it?”

  “I beg your pardon?” he started.

  She wet her lips. They felt numb. “Who did you make love to over there?” Graphic images seemed to be assaulting her. Calder Hart was in them all, the woman faceless.

  His gaze narrowed. It was a moment before he answered, “I do not allow paramours in my place of business. Not ever.”

  She stared. “That’s hardly believable,” she finally said. But she did believe him, oddly, and she was pleased—and relieved.

  “Francesca, you shall be the first lover I make love to in this room.”

  This was not why she had come. “I beg to differ. We both know I will never be your lover and—”

  He sighed, cutting her off. He took her arm, pulled her close. Her breasts flattened against his chest, and for one moment she was stunned, thinking he meant to embrace her and claim her mouth. But he did neither; he gripped her arm, and somehow, they were impossibly close to each other. “You are so impossibly stubborn! I wasn’t speaking literally. But after we are married, I feel rather certain we will christen my office in such an irreverent manner.” He gave her a cocky grin. “The idea seems to appeal to you.”